What Isn't Told
by omishiloh
Summary: Sometimes, it is what isn't told that tells us the most. A journey of self-discovery for one golden hobbit lass.


Author's Note: Written in a dark moment, I guess the AU bunnies bit me again.

Disclaimer: J. R. R. Tolkien is probably my favorite author; however, no matter how much I love his world, it will never be mine.

Warnings: AU.

What Isn't Told

When the hole grew quiet, that's when Elanor loved it best.

It wasn't that the young hobbit-lass did not love her family. But when the noise grew too much, she would slip out into her father's gardens and breathe in the quiet scents of the roses, her mum's favorite, and the small plot of kingsfoil her da kept on hand.

She had heard the stories growing up, from her mum: how her father had saved the Shire with Mister Frodo, how they would not have married without Mister Frodo presiding, and, of course, the story of her blessing underneath the new Party Tree.

Many were born that year, her mum said, but she was the first, and the fairest. Golden hair, like the noon-day light, and bright, clear eyes that "seemed to know what'n we're doin".

Elanor, now a tweenager, did not how she felt about that. If anything she would rather not know - the plants were better company, anyhow. No talk, no rush, no stares.

She did not know what she felt about anything anymore. Her father would look over at her by the hearth and start to say something, but a look from her mum would turn him back to an old, red book, smoothing the cover. She recognized it as one her father occasionally wrote in; some nights, trying to slip into the gardens was impossible, for his presence in the study.

Once, as she was just by the gate, ready to creep back into bed, she heard her mum say, "She must know, Sam-dad. She's a tweenager now."

"Does she?" her da responded. "Does anyone?"

"I know," her mum said, quietly.

Her da's silhouette reached over, and she could just picture it: her mum, leaning on her da's shoulder, as they were fond of doing before the fire. A moment later, she heard a sniffle.

* * *

Many nights later, when the air was cool and crisp just the way she loved it, Elanor again found herself by the gate. Washing day, and it had tired her to the bone. She was grateful that she knew how to wash and dry the clothes just so, but batting the linens was the hardest work each week. They grew heavy when sodden, and it took her mum, herself, and two neighboring hobbits to bat and wring them, leaving them to dry over a thick line taken from one of Sharkey's storerooms.

It was an unusual texture, reflective and long - like someone had taken the binding around many barrels and strung them together. Iron work; some said, evil work.

Good or evil, Elanor reflected, it sure helped with drying the bedclothes.

She breathed deeply. The season was turning - the Party Tree would start to golden underneath, and what few leaves would fall would be made into treasured keepsakes to win at the Harvest Festival. She had not won any yet, but perhaps this year…?

"Farthing for your thoughts?"

She jumped. Her da had stepped up next to her, and was leaning on the gate as she was. She noted guiltily how tired he looked.

"Da, I was not sneaking out -"

He raised his hand. "I know. Your mum said you like to come out here sometimes. I do, too."

"For quiet?"

Her da chuckled. "Sometimes. But there's something about the flowers. They talk to me better than most folks. Not so loud."

Elanor laughed. It was a side most hobbit-folk did not see of her dad - he was the sturdy, steadfast Mayor, but in part due to her uncles Merry and Pippin, held a wit not often displayed.

But her father sobered, and Elanor knew that whatever she had overheard was about to be discussed.

The gate seemed suddenly rough beneath her fingers, and she had to clench her fingers to keep from tracing the wood nervously.

"I know it's been a long day, lass, but take a walk with me?" Her father held out his arm, the way he did for her mum.

Elanor had a sense that taking his arm meant something was going to change. But she took it anyway - if her father could be so brave as to take down Sharkey, she could face whatever she "must know".

They walked down the path. Some sheep nearby _baa_ 'd and she reveled in the familiarity that was her home. Green in the summer, orange in the autumn. So far south it grew only somewhat cold, but the occasional snowfall turned everything into a dreamland. The Troubles were over, she heard all the elders say satisfactorily.

It wasn't until they abruptly turned that she realized they were, in fact, headed toward the Party Tree. Uncanny, but her father was Mayor for a reason.

The night sky, fortunately clear, twinkled friendly-like. The moon was not out, but the starlight was bright enough, and anyway she knew the path to here by heart.

They settled beneath its branches, Elanor on a small, delicate root, and her da against its trunk, facing one another.

"Do you know why this tree is here?' he asked.

Elanor nodded. She had been told many times. "The seed from the Lady Galadriel." Everyone knew now, thanks to Merry and Pippin, who were part of the effort to elect Sam as Mayor. Planting, of course, being the hobbit specialty, the hobbits took particular pride in their Mayor being the only hobbit to have planted an Elvish tree.

"That is how, yes," her father agreed, "but do you know why?"

Elanor was puzzled. "You, and Uncles Merry and Pip, and Mister Frodo, of course. Sharkey was beaten and you planted it to celebrate."

Her father shifted. "So that is how they tell it these days," she heard.

Elanor moved her leg; in the silence following her father's murmur, it had grown numb.

Finally her father said, "You were blessed here, under this tree. Mister Frodo took you in his arms, and said, 'May the light shine upon the hour of her birth, and the grace hold her.'

Elanor, do you know when you were born?"

What an odd question! Of course she knew. Everyone did. Growing into tweenhood as the Mayor's daughter meant she had an obligation to give some of the best mathoms around. It took her at least a month to prepare beforehand.

"Yes, Da, you know Mum. She will make me the most beautiful cake there is, every year, with the roses. This year they were yellow, my favorite. I'm not of age yet, but I will be soon - she said she'll miss making the cakes for me."

She smiled. It had been a beautiful day, one she did not slip away from. Her friends were lovely, and this year actually liked her mathoms, special handkerchiefs embroidered with each hobbit's name and something personal, like a favorite animal.

When her father didn't respond, she grew alarmed. First the question about the tree, now about her birthday? What on Middle-Earth had fogged up her father's mind?

"Elanor - you should know - I'm not -"

Cold dread. Was this what the Shadow felt like? She had played "Shadow Breath" with other hobbit lads and lasses, where they shivered and fell over, pretending to be dead. But this wasn't pretend.

"I'm not your da, Elanor lass."


End file.
